Comes a Stranger E-Book

E. R. Punshon

• Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

"You see," Miss Kayne said, "I committed a murder once myself." Miss Kayne's proud boast to Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen is that she has committed the Perfect Murder - a crime with no clues. Bobby thinks at first it is a macabre joke, but before long a body is reportedly found, stabbed in the world-famous Kayne Library. When Bobby gets to the scene, the corpse has disappeared. But instead Miss Kayne's cousin, Nat, is found in a nearby country lane - shot through the heart. Were the two murders connected - or were there even two? Bobby finds himself embroiled in one of the most ingenious and sinister cases of his career. Can he prove this was not a case of Perfect Murder? Comes a Stranger, originally published in 1938, is the eleventh novel in the Bobby Owen mystery series. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans. "What is distinction? The few who achieve it step - plot or no plot - unquestioned into the first rank… in the works of Mr. E.R. Punshon we salute it every time." Dorothy L. Sayers

Leseprobe

E.R. Punshon COMES A STRANGER

“You see,” Miss Kayne said, “I committed a murder once myself.”

Miss Kayne’s proud boast to Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen is that she has committed the Perfect Murder – a crime with no clues. Bobby thinks at first it is a macabre joke, but before long a body is reportedly found, stabbed in the world-famous Kayne Library. When Bobby gets to the scene, the corpse has disappeared. But instead Miss Kayne’s cousin, Nat, is found in a nearby country lane – shot through the heart. Were the two murders connected – or were there even two? Bobby finds himself embroiled in one of the most ingenious and sinister cases of his career. Can he prove this was not a case of Perfect Murder?

Comes a Stranger, originally published in 1938, is the eleventh novel in the Bobby Owen mystery series. This new edition features an introduction and afterword by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

“Death has no advantage, but when it comes a stranger”

(FRANCIS QUARLES)

INTRODUCTION

With Comes a Stranger, E. R. Punshon’s eleventh Bobby Owen detective novel, the author found inspiration for his plot in remarkable contemporary real life events, to which he circumspectly alluded in an author’s note at the beginning of the book. In this introduction I discuss the novel without reference to the actual events that inspired its composition. The latter subject I address in an afterword, which readers should peruse only after they have finished the novel, on account of major plot spoilers contained therein.

During the course of his murder investigation in Dictator’s Way, the Bobby Owen detective novel that immediately preceded Comes a Stranger, Detective Sergeant Owen, like other handsome, well-born fictional crime solvers of his day, such as Dorothy L. Sayers’s Lord Peter Wimsey and Ngaio Marsh’s Inspector Roderick Alleyn, falls in love with one of the suspects in the case: Olive Farrar, lovely owner of a chic London hat shop. In Comes a Stranger, Bobby and Olive, who happily proved not to be the actual guilty party in the earlier novel, are engaged to be married. The couple are chastely spending some time in the country, Bobby staying in Wynton Village at the Wynton Arms, and Olive at nearby Wynton Lodge, country home of eccentric Miss Kayne, an old friend of her family, and the locale of the world-renowned Kayne library.

The Kayne Library, which was brought into existence by Miss Kayne’s late father and now “perhaps the finest collection of books in private hands,” is the object of considerable contention as the novel opens. Over the library imperiously presides the intimidating noted bibliographical scholar Mr. Broast, timorously assisted by his wallflower secretary, Miss Perkins. However, the library is under the sole control, during her lifetime, of Miss Kayne, pending any compelling evidence brought forth by the trustees--Miss Kayne’s cousin, Nathaniel Kayne, and her near neighbor, bibliophile Sir William Winders--of maladministration on her part. Both of the trustees are desirous of finding just such evidence, Winders because he wants to replace Mr. Broast as librarian either with himself or someone loyal to him, Nathaniel Kayne because he hopes to close the library and sell off the books to the University of Wales, pocketing a big profit. (Under the terms of the will he is Miss Kayne’s heir.) For his part, Bobby has the impression that Miss Kayne, who has devoted her life to nurturing her father’s brainchild, “felt towards that wonderful collection of books a little as Frankenstein felt towards the monster of his creation.”

At the end of chapter five a report comes to Sergeant Owen of, most classically, a body in the library, yet when he arrives upon the scene he is unable to locate said body. However, a bullet-riddled corpse, this one definitely verified, soon turns up in the sunken lane through Wynton Wood, and Bobby’s assistance thereupon is secured by local law enforcement to help them solve this most perplexing problem, one that will see more deaths before it is untangled. A slashed portrait, a tale of an old lover’s long-hidden poems, an American with the remarkable, Elmer Gantry-ish name of Bertram A. Virtue and a box of forget-me-nots all play parts in one of E.R. Punshon’s most beguiling tales of mystery.

Along the way the reader is treated to some superb examples of the author’s engaging wit and wisdom. The county constable, Major Harley, is much enamored with Freud and theorizes throughout the novel that sexual repression may be a factor in the case:

“Repressed sex instinct. Knew she wasn’t attractive to men and wanted to make other people think she was. I’ve known instances. It’s all in Freud. He knows.”

“Repressed sex instinct again,” explained the Major. “She was in love with him. Didn’t you notice the way she talked about his good looks?...I’ve known cases—these sex-starved, unattractive women. Pathetic, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby.

“These sex-starved women…” [The Major] left the sentence unfinished except for shaking his head doubtfully. “Freud, you know,” he said abruptly.

Bobby didn’t know, so he made no reply, and the Major shook his head again.

“Anyhow, first glimpse of a motive we’ve had,” [the Major] pronounced. “Very good looking young fellow….The girl is obsessed by him. She knows she has no chance. It grows on her. She can’t have him in life. She will in death. Sex starved. That’s it, perhaps. Worth considering.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, though what he meant was “No, sir”….

Later Bobby discusses the case with Olive, mentioning Major Harley’s pet theory about the manic compulsions of sex-starved women (“Freud, you know”), which the spirited Olive ripostes with keen feminist insight:

“It’s very horrid of him,” said Olive. “Why is it always women who are supposed to be sex starved? Why not men for a change?

“Well, I suppose men needn’t be if they don’t want.”

“Women needn’t either, need they? Not now, not to-day. My gracious, walk along Piccadilly, if you’re a girl, I mean, and see how many men are willing to relieve any symptoms of sex starvation. Piccadilly may not be flowing with milk and honey, but it certainly is with the most obliging men. Sex starvation fiddlesticks….Sex starvation is just a phrase invented by gentlemen who don’t want to run any risk of suffering from it themselves, blast them. It’s all a dodge to make women easy.”

Olive herself is a London career woman, owner of “Olive, Hats,” and contemplates marriage to Bobby with some level of trepidation: “All very well to talk about sex equality, but the eternities remained, and what a woman gave, she gave, and could never have again. But what a man took, he took and could go on taking, so where was your equality?” Somewhat undercutting this observation Punshon adds that, nevertheless, after Olive sees Bobby looking at her, “no thought was left in her any more, only a great wish that she had more to give and ever more.” Readers unimpressed with this last sentiment should compare it with Margery Allingham’s observations on marriage and feminine sacrifice in her detective novel The Fashion in Shrouds, also published in 1938; I think they will find Punshon the more modern of the two authors in this regard.

Comes a Stranger inaugurated the period of, arguably, Punshon’s finest crime fiction, and it was highly favorably received by English reviewers. (Mystifyingly, it and the next six Bobby Owen detective novels were not published in the United States.) Reviewing Stranger in the Spectator, Punshon’s Detection Club colleague Nicholas Blake (the leftist poet Cecil Day Lewis) conceded that while the novel “reverts to that venerable crime chestnut, the Body in the Library” (this four years before the publication of Agatha Christie’s celebrated Miss Marple detective novel of that title), “Mr. Punshon garnishes his crime with a wealth of bibliography which adds to its fascination.” Comes a Stranger was, he declared, “a first-rate story” with a “terrific climax.” On this score, Mr. Blake will get no argument from me. It is a great pleasure to welcome Comes a Stranger, a mystery set in a library of precious rare books that is itself the rarest of E.R. Punshon’s detective novels, back in print after nearly eighty years. Classic crime fiction fans are in for a rare treat.

Curtis Evans

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Because this story was suggested by, and is indeed founded upon, certain recent occurrences, on which, however, for good reason, little emphasis was laid in the public press, it is all the more necessary to insist that neither personages, incidents nor localities have any resemblance even in the slightest degree, to actual places, persons, or events.

There is, there never has been, any library, public or private, in any way resembling the Kayne library. The owner, the trustees, the librarian, are all equally creatures of the imagination, and have no relation to any person, living or dead.

Certain liberties, too, for the purposes of the tale, have been taken with the facts of bibliography. There is, for example, no reason to suppose that Caxton did in fact print an edition of the Travels of Sir John Mandeville, even though it is a little surprising that so popular a work—a ‘best seller’ for centuries—did not pass through his press. But it is hoped that such liberties as have been taken are of comparatively minor importance, and that if, by any remote chance, this work falls into the hands of the expert bibliographer, he will not find in it too much to arouse indignation.

CHAPTER ITHE PERFECT MURDER

“You see,” explained Miss Kayne, wheezing a little, her tiny voice issuing as it were with difficulty from the mountainous flesh encasing it and her, ‘‘I was so interested when I saw that paragraph about dear Olive engaged to a detective. So exciting.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen, polite but bored, wondering vaguely why everyone thought a detective’s life exciting when in reality it consisted chiefly of routine work any city clerk would think deadly dull.

“Because, you see,” Miss Kayne went on, “I committed a murder once myself.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bobby brightly, getting ready to laugh as soon as he saw exactly where the joke was supposed to lie.

“The perfect murder,” mused Miss Kayne in her small and distant voice. “I think—the perfect murder.”

“Indeed,” said Bobby, still brightly, still wondering what, exactly, was the joke, and when he would have to laugh.

“You would call it that, wouldn’t you?” Miss Kayne went on, looking at him earnestly, “when there’s never even any suspicion—when the murdered person just vanishes and is never even missed, and no questions are ever asked?”

“Well, I suppose so,” agreed Bobby. “Only it doesn’t happen like that, you know.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Why, er—” Bobby said, a little taken aback by the direct question, by something forceful, too, he seemed to feel in it.

“Do have another cup of tea,” she urged. ‘‘Or a whisky and soda? You would prefer that? If you’ll ring the bell, Briggs will get it.”

“Oh, no, thanks, I never touch spirits in the day time,” Bobby explained. “Sometimes at night just before going to bed. But that’s all.”

The conversation languished. Bobby supposed the subject of the perfect murder, of the victim who vanished and was never even missed, had now been exhausted. Certainly this enormous old woman, sunk in fat, her swollen feet in great, shapeless slippers, so ponderous that, as he knew, for Olive had told him, it was all she could do to rise from her chair without assistance, in no way suggested a murderess.

Bobby was paying this visit at Olive’s request, and because it is part of the duty of the newly-engaged to present themselves for the inspection and approval of the friends and relatives of the other party. Miss Kayne was, he knew, a very old friend of Olive’s, though one from whom she had not heard for a number of years till there had appeared paragraphs in the papers announcing their engagement. The papers noticed it, because it came as a sequel to a sensational case of murder that on account of its political aspects had attracted general attention, and so there had been various headlines about Romantic Sequel to Sensational Political Killings.

As a result there had arrived a letter from this old friend of Olive’s, asking her and Bobby to spend a week at Wynton Lodge, Miss Kayne’s residence in the village of Wynton, near Mayfield, a town of some size. Wynton Lodge was, too, the home of the famous Kayne library Miss Kayne’s father had built up through many ardent years, till now it had a world-wide reputation. Olive had accepted the invitation, glad to renew an old friendship, but Bobby’s duties at Scotland Yard had only permitted him to run down this afternoon on his new motor cycle for which he had just finished paying, and now was wondering for much he could sell it again, since, in view of his engagement, pots and pans, curtains and carpets, were all becoming of more importance than motor cycles.

So far it had proved rather a boring visit. Of course, Miss Kayne was an important person, as the owner of the celebrated library that held all sorts of bookish treasures. But then Bobby did not know much about books, nor was he overwhelmingly interested in them. He was wondering now what to say next. He wished Miss Kayne would make some remark, and with something of a start he realized how closely she was watching him from small, malignant eyes, deep hidden like knives in ambush behind huge rolls of fat. It was almost as though she expected him to take her remark seriously. It was almost as though she challenged and defied either him or the impersonal authority of the law that sometimes he represented. Then he supposed that perhaps she was annoyed because he had not yet seen the point of her joke about the ‘perfect murder’, and had made no suitable response. Or perhaps she didn’t like detectives, or perhaps she just simply didn’t like him, or, more probably and naturally, merely thought it was a pity a girl like Olive should be throwing herself away on a detective-sergeant of police.

He wished Olive would come back. She had gone to see if they might visit the famous library. He let his gaze wander out of the window to rest on the tall, blank wall of the annexe built out from the main body of the house, like a thrusting arm, wherein the great Kayne collection of books was contained. There were no windows, it was just a great blank wall, like that of a gaol or a fortress to guard some secret prisoner.

Silly, of course. What secret prisoner could a famous library hold? But why should a library be built like a gaol?

Suddenly he became aware that Miss Kayne was shaking with a hidden, silent mirth. Her laughter seemed to run all over her huge body, and yet it found no outlet in sound.

Even her chair, an enormous construction in solid oak, shook with it, and her cushions that were about her like a sea. There she sat and rumbled with an inner merriment, but a merriment in which her small, bright, deep sunken eyes had no share, for in them as they peeped out at Bobby he thought he recognized a secret, hidden hate. She said:—

“That’s the library building you’re looking at, the Kayne library.”

Was it the library she hated, he wondered? Or something that the library stood for? Or was he himself, for some reason, the object of her anger?

“I was wondering,” he said slowly, “why there are no windows.”

“South wall,” she explained. “When my father built it he wanted no windows on that wall because he thought direct sunlight might be bad for the books, their bindings especially.”

“I see,” said Bobby.

“There are windows on the other wall, the north wall and at the west end,” she told him. “They all have steel shutters, though.”

“Steel?”

“Protection against burglars,” she explained. “Some of the books are very valuable. Against burglars—and fire.”

Her mirth had ceased now, but she pronounced this last word with a strange and puzzling accent, lingering on it as though she loved its sound and yet dreaded it as well. A strange old woman, Bobby thought, and with a certain disquiet his mind returned to that declaration of hers about the perfect murder she said she had once committed. Nonsense, of course, and yet those small, malignant eyes of hers were still watching him, he saw, like enemies in ambush.

“We must take every possible precaution against fire,” she said again, and again her small, clear voice lingered on the final word.

“Oh yes, of course,” agreed Bobby, who knew, for it was common knowledge, that there were many valuable treasures in the Kayne library.

There was the Glastonbury Second Psalter, for instance, snatched from under the very nose of the British Museum authorities hesitant on an authenticity now triumphantly established, so that the thousand pounds for which it had been purchased had increased tenfold. Or those so precious fragmentary pages of the Travels of Sir John Mandeville, printed by Caxton. Till their discovery by Mr. Broast, the Kayne Library custodian, in the South of France, it had not been known that Caxton had ever printed the Mandeville Travels, even though the guess had often been hazarded that so popular a work was almost certain to have passed through his press. The discovery of these fragmentary pages—a score of them, twelve consecutive—the sole relics of an edition that otherwise had vanished utterly, provided therefore a first class sensation, and the eight odd pages had been sold for enormous sums, mostly in America. The other pages, the consecutive ones, remained in the library, all offers, no matter how extravagant, being sternly refused. No wonder, then, that precautions like steel shutters were employed against theft and fire. Only it was odd how strangely that thin, remote voice of Miss Kayne’s lingered upon this last word, as though it held for her some dreadful and unnamed attraction.

“A penny for your thoughts,” she said unexpectedly, as though she had guessed something of what was passing through his mind. He had the idea indeed that there was little those small, bright eyes of hers did not see, and little, too, of what they saw that when they saw they did not hate. In quite a different tone she said: “Well, when are you and Olive going to get married?”

“We haven’t settled anything yet,” he answered.

“Money, I suppose,” she said. “It’s all money in this world. Money. Are detectives well paid?”

“Not detective-sergeants in the Metropolitan police,” Bobby answered ruefully.

“Olive has a business of her own?”

“Her hat shop, you mean? I don’t think it does much more than pay the rent. Bad debts, for one thing.”

“Collect ’em,” said Miss Kayne.

“Can’t, sometimes, when there’s no money. And Olive says it’s often worse when there is money. Apparently when you’ve a five figure income ordinary bills are beneath your notice, and if you’re asked to settle, then you take offence, and there may be a bill paid, but a customer lost.”

The old woman nodded, nodded at least as far as the folds of fat around her neck permitted her to move her head.

“Olive told me about that,” she said in her tiny, distant voice, that sounded almost as if she were speaking over a telephone. “She said you ought to be promoted soon, and then it would be all right.”

Bobby shook his head doubtfully.

“Goodness knows when that will be,” he said. “Things aren’t too comfortable in the London police just now.”

Bobby hesitated. He knew very well that Olive had accepted Miss Kayne’s invitation not only for old friendship’s sake but also because she thought Miss Kayne, as a rich and influential woman, acquainted with many important people, might be able to help Bobby to that official recognition Olive felt it was so unfair he had not yet been granted. More likely to do harm than good, Bobby thought privately.

But Miss Kayne might as well know how things were. He went on.

“It’s this business Lord Trenchard started of bringing in an officer class. Every policeman used to feel he had as good a chance as anyone else in the force. Now he feels that the first thing he’ll be asked when he goes before a promotion board is what his father did. Just like a new boy at school. ‘What’s your father do?’ Then the kid’s classed, for good. Like that with us, too, now. ‘What was your father?’ is the first thing the Promotion Board wants to know. If you say your father was a doctor or a parson, well, they purr and you get through. If you say he was a navvy or a farm labourer, they look down their noses and the odds are you don’t.”

“That doesn’t affect you, does it?” Miss Kayne asked. “You’re the officer class, too.”

“Oh, I fall between two stools,” Bobby explained. “I’m not one of the Hendon lot and I don’t much want to be, so I’m out there. At the same time the old style policeman classes me with them, so I’m out there, too. Lord Trenchard thought the police only existed to protect society, and he only saw society as a society of the rich, so he thought he had to bring in chaps from the rich classes to keep the police loyal. They were loyal, but loyal to the community, not to a class. The Trenchard result is that for the first time the police are split with class feeling—some of them feel they are only there as servants of rich people, and the rest don’t like it, and none of them know quite where they are.”

The door opened then and Bobby forgot everything else as Olive came in. She gave him a quick, smiling, hesitating glance, a little as though she were wondering still who it was to whom she had now trusted herself, and her future, and why she had done so, and whether it had been quite wise, and what would he do with her? For indeed a half of her gloried in the surrender she had made and a half of her was afraid. All very well to talk about sex equality, but the eternities remained, and what a woman gave, she gave, and could never have again. But what a man took, he took and could go on taking, so where was your equality? And then she was Bobby looking at her and at that no thought was left in her any more only a great wish that she had more to give and ever more. Neither of them noticed how the small hidden gaze of the old, fat woman, immobile in her huge arm-chair, went darkly from one of them to the other, and then back, nor, if they had, would it have been easy for them, or anyone, to guess what meaning lay hidden in those remote and secret eyes.

“Does Mr. Broast say it’ll be all right?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh yes, he was quite nice about it,” Olive answered. “Miss Perkins says he’s in a good temper today, in spite of its being Inspection.”

“You saw him yourself?” Miss Kayne insisted, a little uneasily, as though she were afraid of any misunderstanding—though, after all, Bobby reflected, the library was hers, and Mr. Broast only a salaried employee.

“Oh yes,” Olive answered. “Miss Perkins said he was in the cellar, and I had better go and ask him, and so I did.”

Was it then necessary, Bobby wondered, for Miss Kayne to ask her librarian’s permission before she sent her guests to view her treasures?

“The cellars? What was he doing in the cellars? Was he alone?” Miss Kayne asked, her voice suddenly a note higher.

“Oh no, Sir William and Mr. Nat were there, too. They were looking at an old printing press. Mr. Broast was explaining something.”

Miss Kayne made no further comment. She seemed, as it were, to withdraw herself into the lethargy of her gross, enormous body. Olive touched Bobby on the arm and they went out together, Miss Kayne apparently hardly conscious of their withdrawal.

CHAPTER IITHE CUT CANVAS

Outside, Bobby said to Olive:

“Well, you did tell me Mr. Broast ran the whole show pretty well on his own, but I didn’t know you meant it was like that.”

“It might belong to him,” Olive agreed; “Miss Kayne never interferes.” She added: “You would almost think she hates the library and everything connected with it.”

Indeed this was the impression Bobby himself had been conscious of, as if Miss Kayne felt towards that wonderful collection of books a little as Frankenstein felt towards the monster of his creation. Perhaps she felt that her life, her father’s life, had been made too much a mere accessory to the creation of the library. Under her father’s careful and somewhat complicated will, she was the owner for life, but only for life, and old Mr. Kayne, very much afraid his daughter might marry someone who would prefer its very considerable value in money, had taken great pains to make sure that the library should be kept together in perpetuity.

The will, however, gave her very wide powers of administration, though these were, in fact, exercised almost at his own discretion by Mr. Broast. Within the four walls of his domain his word alone had authority. It was he to whom application had to be made for permission to examine or consult any of the treasures in his charge; he who decided such purchases and sales as seemed desirable or necessary.

For the library had been built up by old Mr. Kayne, a comparatively poor man, through a system of extraordinarily successful dealing in books. When he had started to collect, rarities were easier to find, both in Great Britain and on the continent, than is the case today, and he had been one of the first to realize that there was a fresh and eager—and wealthy—market in the United States. His discovery of a printed form of Indulgence issued to some local magnate who had contributed towards the expenses of the war against the Turk, and that had almost certainly, from the similarity of type and paper and for other technical reasons, been drawn off as a kind of trial, or test, previous to the printing of the great Gutenberg or 42-line Bible, had been a first-class sensation. It had also been extremely profitable, for the name written in on the printed form happened to be that of an extremely wealthy American business man who had in consequence been prepared to pay a fancy price for a document he claimed, on the strength of this resemblance of names, had been issued to an ancestor. There was too, the discovery of those few famous leaves proving that Caxton had, in fact, printed an edition of the Travels of John Mandeville.

In this way, buying precious things cheap, securing for them a judicious publicity, and then selling them at a greatly increased figure to purchase others more precious still, old Mr. Kayne had not only succeeded in building up what was perhaps the finest collection of books in private hands, but in making, as it were, the library pay for itself and for a cost of maintenance that was naturally considerable. It was a method still followed by the present custodian, Mr. Broast, who since the death of his employer, under whom he had worked for many years, had not only been retained in charge by Miss Kayne, but was allowed by her to exercise almost entirely his own discretion in all matters of business and administration.

By the terms of his will, however, Mr. Kayne, always haunted by that vision of a possible spendthrift husband for his daughter, or of one more interested in the cash value of books than in the books themselves, had given a right of inspection to the ultimate heir, his brother, Nathaniel Kayne, and to Sir William Winders, a rival collector, part dearest friend and colleague, part deadliest enemy and hated and dreaded rival. These two had power, acting jointly, if they were not satisfied with the upkeep of the library or the general results of the sales and purchases effected, to ask the Courts to order a formal inquiry, though with the provision that they were to be personally responsible for the costs if the investigation proved without reasonable grounds.

The general effect was that the library remained the sole property of Miss Kane for life except on clear proof of serious mal-administration and that all her rights and powers were in fact exercised in her name by Mr. Broast.

After her death, if she died unmarried or without male issue, the library was to pass to Nathaniel Kayne, the testator’s brother, to him and his heirs direct in the male line, always under the same strict precautions to provide for proper maintenance. On any failure in administration, or any failure in the male Kayne line, the library passed to the University of Wales, that being selected as a young foundation comparatively badly off and by no means likely to let slip any chance of securing such a treasure as the Kayne library.

In drawing up his will, old Mr. Kayne had evidently had two main ideas: one that for as long as possible the Kayne family, and the other that it should never suffer the usual fate of private libraries and be dispersed by public auction. The testator’s brother, the Nathaniel Kayne mentioned in the will, had been dead a good many years, but his rights and duties under the will had passed to his son and heir, the Nathaniel Kayne mentioned by Miss Perkins to Olive, and of whom it was generally believed, since he was known to be in need of money, that the moment he came into possession he would sell his rights, as the will permitted to be done, to the Welsh University.

In spite of a general belief that Mr. Broast held his position by right under the will, that somewhat lengthy and verbose document made no mention of him, except once or twice in reference to the advice that might be given by the librarian. He remained, as he had been under old Mr. Kayne, an employee subject to the usual notice of dismissal, but in practice he acted as the owner, merely asking Miss Kayne for her signature to documents when it was necessary in law, but otherwise acting entirely on his own responsibility. He even resented the monthly inspections Sir William Winders and Mr. Nathaniel Kayne had power to carry out, and that they seldom omitted, for Sir William lived in hopes of finding out something which would enable him to get Mr. Broast dismissed, and himself, or a nominee of his own, placed in charge, and Nathaniel would have been equally glad of a chance to negotiate on a cash basis with the university authorities. Inspection days, therefore, tended to be days of open battle, and on them, as Mr. Broast’s secretary and assistant, Miss Perkins, had remarked, Mr. Broast’s temper was apt to be distinctly uncertain.

So far, however, the hopes of Sir William, the expectations of Nathaniel, had remained unsatisfied. Impossible to find any fault with a management at once scholarly, efficient and financially successful. Mr Broast seemed, indeed, to have inherited old Mr. Kayne’s flair for sensational discoveries in the book world, and only two or three years previously had purchased for a low figure and sold for a sum large enough to cover all library costs for some years, the prayer book used by Bishop Juxon at the execution of Charles the First together with the Bishop’s own copy of that one time best seller; the Eikon Basiliké, of which some sixty editions and translations appeared within a year of the king’s death, a record to arouse the envy of even a twentieth century best selling novelist. The copy had, too, a feature of extraordinary interest in that on the fly leaf, beneath the Bishop’s signature, had been written the word ‘Remember’ by apparently the Bishop’s own hand. It was a word, since it presumably referred to the one mysterious injunction given by the king to the bishop on the scaffold itself, that according to report had added a couple of thousand pounds to the value of the book. True, the authenticity of the prayer book had been disputed, but the pedigree of the Eikon Basiliké seemed satisfactory, though it was only Mr. Broast who had appreciated the unique interest of that ‘Remember’, or had identified the crabbed, difficult signature as that of the Bishop.

Another clause in the will provided that the library had to be open to the public once a month, so that the ordinary citizen, too, might have a chance to wonder at and admire so many bookish treasures. It was not a privilege, however, that the ordinary citizen ever showed any great eagerness to exercise. On some of these monthly open days only one or two visitors put in an appearance, though occasionally there would be an influx when char-a-bancs would arrive with bands of tourists or sometimes with chattering companies of schoolgirls.

These days, too, were a sad trial to poor Mr. Broast, interfering with his work, breaking in on the solitude and peace he loved, keeping him in a flutter of anxiety lest some precious book or manuscript might disappear or some act of vandalism be perpetrated. He mobilized the whole household on these occasions to act as watchdogs. Even poor Miss Kayne herself, grumbling and reluctant, was uprooted from her favourite chair to sit at the entrance and see that all visitors duly signed the great visitor’s book, while Mr. Broast, his little secretary, Miss Perkins, Briggs, the butler, kept constant watch and ward. Even the cook and the maids were called on at times, though Mr. Broast never felt that they were a remedy likely to be much better than the disease. As for Miss Perkins, she generally ended the day under notice of dismissal, though that was never mentioned again, since it would have been impossible to find anyone else so willing, so industrious, so prepared to be entirely at Mr. Broast’s beck and call—and above all, so cheap.

“A fool, a giggling little fool,” Mr. Broast would snort indignantly; “totally uneducated—doesn’t know a word of Greek or Hebrew, didn’t even know what a colophon was or a signature when she came. But no worse than most other giggling fools of girls.”

He never added that she was content with a salary of twenty-five shillings a week, was prepared to work all hours and every day, and seemed willing to endure the worst edge of his sharp tongue and general bad temper.

In fairness, though, it must be agreed that Mr. Broast’s monthly fits of nervous anxiety had some justification. There was the awful occasion when a young woman visitor had been found lighting a cigarette in one of the book recesses!! One prefers not to dwell upon the subsequent scene. Mr. Broast’s pet nightmare was fire. He even refused to have artificial lighting in his beloved library. Work after dark had to be done by the light of portable electric torches, of which a supply was always kept on hand—though in the house, not the library. Warmth in winter, recognized as necessary, not for the human element but to preserve the books from the effects of damp, was provided by hot water pipes, Mr. Broast feeling that hot water was little likely to cause fire. One can imagine, therefore, his emotion when he was someone actually holding a lighted match to a glowing cigarette, the match no doubt to be thrown, still burning, on the floor, the cigarette end destined most likely for some waste paper basket.

There had been further complications, too, when the girl’s father brought an action for assault and battery. Altogether a most unfortunate episode. Again, only three or four months ago, the glass of the show case enclosing the Second Glastonbury Psalter had been mysteriously broken, nor had the culprit ever been discovered. The sound of the smash had brought Mr. Broast and Miss Perkins and one or two visitors, those near enough to hear, running at full speed, in time certainly to frustrate any attempt at theft if that had been contemplated, though the Psalter itself did not seem to have been touched, but not quickly enough to catch the culprit. Presumably the guilty person had instantly fled elsewhere, perhaps down to the cellar where an old fifteenth century printing press was always an attraction. Anyhow, he had never been identified, but the incident had been disquieting. It had to be admitted, therefore, that Mr. Broast had some excuse for his displays of nerves on open days, though, as little Miss Perkins remarked between two giggles, that was no reason for being rude to visitors or for refusing permission to use the library to readers and scholars whose credentials did not happen to quite satisfy him.

Bobby, only mildly interested in even the rarest and most precious of books, would have preferred a quiet stroll with Olive to the library inspection, for which Mr. Broast had just given what was apparently so rare and gracious a permission. But for one thing rain was threatening, and after all the Kayne library was famous the world over and worth a visit. Besides, certain reminiscences of libraries he had known in his Oxford days suggested that this one, too, might provide quiet and unobserved nooks and corners, where it would be possible to persuade Olive to turn her attention from bibliographic to more personal subjects. As they made their way down the long corridor that led from the room where Miss Kayne usually spent her days to the door—fireproof—admitting to the library annexe, he said to Olive:

“Miss Kayne seems a queer old bird. She informed me she had committed a murder once.”

“What?” exclaimed Olive, startled.

“I suppose it was some kind of joke,” observed Bobby doubtfully. “I couldn’t see the point.”

“I don’t think murder’s anything to joke about,” declared Olive, shivering slightly at memories still vivid.

“She said that was why she was interested in your being engaged to a detective,” observed Bobby. He added complainingly: “Everyone in the blessed place seems to know all about me. There was an old boy at lunch at the Wynton Arms wanted to know if it was true I belonged to the C.I.D.”

“A little man with grey hair and a big nose and horn spectacles?” Olive asked. “That would be Mr. Adams. He came here specially to see something in the library, and Mr. Broast wouldn’t let him. There was an awful scene.”

“Why did Broast object, do you know?”

“Oh, it was something rather specially precious, and Mr. Broast says he doesn’t know Mr. Adams, and Mr. Adams has no credentials, and he’s not going to let every Tom, Dick, and Harry paw over things they don’t understand and can’t appreciate, and Mr. Adams—well, Miss Perkins says she thought murder was going to be done, only finally Mr. Adams went away, and now he is waiting for credentials to show he really is a serious student. He had to send to America for them, and he’s awfully furious. There was another scene with Miss Kayne, but she wouldn’t interfere, she never does.”

“I suppose that’s what he meant,” Bobby remarked. “I gathered he thought I ought to go and arrest somebody, but I couldn’t make out who or why. Then another fellow started to pump me. I had to shut him up. A long-legged fellow, rather good looking, fair. An American, too, I should say.”

“He sounds like a boy I saw in the village last night, after Sir William Winders called to give inspection notice. He has to do that you know, or probably Mr. Broast wouldn’t let him in. It’s a sort of general armed neutrality among them all, at least when it’s nothing worse.”

“Well, this chap seemed to want to know a lot. Told me America was just crazy about Scotland Yard, and I told him that was just too nice, but if he wanted to know anything he must make written application. We weren’t allowed to talk. That choked him off, it always does if you talk about written application.”

“I wonder what he’s here for,” Olive said. She went on: “I’m not sure, but I think I saw someone like him prowling about outside the library the other night.”

“Did you though? Can he be up to anything?”

“Mr Broast is awfully nervous about burglars,” Olive remarked. “Not so much about fire, though. You don’t think this man’s a burglar, do you?”

“Oh, I expect he’s all right,” agreed Bobby. “I didn’t recognize him, and he didn’t look like a crook, but then crooks never do. It’s only that he seemed to want to know such a lot. It’s all a bit queer—and then Miss Kayne making silly jokes about murderers. You’ve known her a good time, haven’t you?”

“Ever since I was quite a kiddy. Poor Peter’s father was doing my portrait—it’s at the Tate now, but they don’t show it because it’s supposed to be so old-fashioned. He was doing old Mr. Kayne at the same time, and Miss Kayne used to come to the studio with her father. She used to give me chocolates and pet me, and afterwards she had me here sometimes for holidays, after mother went to live abroad. But after I joined mother I didn’t hear of her again for a long time—not till she read about our engagement in one of the papers. When I saw her again I hardly knew her,” Olive added. “She used to be ever so pretty.”

“Who? Miss Kayne?” Bobby asked incredulously.

“Well, come and look,” Olive said.

They had been talking in the corridor, and now she led him back a few steps and into the dining-room. A portrait hung there, above the fireplace. It showed a lively, pleasant-faced, good-looking girl with small, regular features and a rather charming air of friendly eagerness, as of one hurrying to say ‘Yes’ to life and all that it might bring Bobby, staring at it wonderingly, could vaguely trace a sort of dim resemblance to the swollen features and enormous bulk of the old woman he had seen, ponderous and silent in her great oak chair. He said:

“That’s not Miss Kayne, is it?”

Olive nodded.

“Peter’s father did that, too,” she said slowly.

“But—well, how old… I mean…”

He did not say what he meant, but Olive understood.

“It’s rather dreadful, isn’t it?” she said. “That was done about twenty-five years ago. She would be twenty-six or seven then. She can’t be much over fifty now.”

Bobby continued staring at the portrait. What strange circumstances could have changed the bright and vivid girl of the picture into that sombre, swollen mass of flesh he had just left? Life can be strange, life can be hard and bitter, but between this picture and that reality there seemed to be an abyss altogether unaccountable.

“Oh well,” he said, telling himself it was no business of his. He said to Olive: “You aren’t staying any longer, are you?”

“I am sorry for her,” Olive said.

Bobby scowled. He interpreted this remark quite rightly as an intimation that Olive meant to stay as long as Miss Kayne wished, or as long as Olive could spare the time. Then he went nearer to the picture. Something had caught his eye. He said:

“There’s a tear in the canvas. Do you see? There.”

“No. Where?” Olive asked.

“Across the throat,” Bobby said. “The canvas has been slit right across there where the throat is.”

Olive looked. It was plain enough when pointed out. The painted throat had been cut across, and though the slit had been repaired it was still visible when looked for. Olive turned away with a slight shudder.

“Let’s go into the library,” she said. “I told Miss Perkins we wouldn’t be long.”

CHAPTER IIITHE LIBRARY

They went through the great fireproof door that admitted from the house to the library annexe. Beyond was a small, square lobby, containing a chair, a writing table on which lay a huge visitors’ book, on one wall a portrait of an elderly gentleman in a frock coat, and opposite it an enormous ‘No Smoking’ placard.

“Mr. Broast has a ‘no smoking’ complex,” Olive said, seeing Bobby looking at this.

“Well, it’s big enough all right,” observed Bobby. “Who is the old gentleman?”

“Miss Kayne’s father,” Olive explained. “Afterwards Mr Albert always said it was the worst thing he ever did.”

“It’s not so bad,” decided Bobby, examining it critically. “A bit photographic, perhaps.”

“That’s just what Mr. Albert always said himself,” observed Olive with a touch of surprise in her voice. “He said a camera would have done as good a job. He told me once it was about the only time he hadn’t been able to get hold of his subject at all, as if there were something Mr. Kayne was keeping back, something secret in him, something of himself he wasn’t going to let anyone else know about if he could help it.”

The thought came into Bobby’s mind that Miss Kayne, too, had given him the same impression, a feeling of something held back and hidden, something that only constant watchfulness and effort prevented from thrusting itself into the open. Olive said teasingly:

“You ought to have been an art critic.”

“No such luck,” sighed Bobby. “What do they keep it here for?” he added, thinking of the other portrait, that of Miss Kayne, to which this seemed the natural companion.

“It does seem funny, doesn’t it?” agreed Olive, and then there opened the door, again heavy and fireproof, that admitted from this entrance lobby to the main library hall.

Through it there fluttered nervously, rather like a startled canary hopping from perch to perch in its cage, a small, slight, youngish, frightened looking woman, wearing a brown overall, with mouse-coloured hair, dull, slightly inflamed eyes behind heavy horn spectacles, small, indeterminate features, conveying altogether a general air of timid and apologetic insignificance. When she saw Olive and Bobby she giggled and said breathlessly:

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” It was how she began almost all her sentences. “Oh, I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Oh no, we’ve only been here a minute,” Olive answered reassuringly. “Miss Perkins is Mr. Broast’s secretary, Bobby. I know you’ve heard about Mr. Owen, Miss Perkins.”

To her great annoyance Olive found she was blushing as she said this. Miss Perkins giggled again. She generally did. She clasped her hands and gasped:

“Oh, I’m so sorry; oh, it’s so romantic, isn’t it?” She giggled once again. Bobby and Olive exchanged glances, two minds with but a single thought, and that regrettably tending towards assault and battery. Miss Perkins, noticing nothing, managed yet another giggle, and panted out: “Oh, it must be so Wonderful to be a detective, and find out everything. You do, don’t you, Mr. Owen, Everything?”

“I don’t know about everything,” said Bobby.

Believe it or not, Miss Perkins produced another giggle. Bobby looked despairingly at Olive. Olive scowled at him to tell him he must be patient and then said:

“Must we sign the visitor’s book, Miss Perkins?”

“Oh, yes, please; oh, I’m so sorry,” said Miss Perkins, fluttering over to the table. “Oh, I do think it ought to be ‘Distinguished Visitors’, don’t you, Miss Farrar? Because Mr. Owen’s quite famous, isn’t he? And you, too, I’m sure, so it oughtn’t to be just ‘Visitors’, ought it?

“I’m not famous,” Bobby declared, with a touch of temper in his voice so that Olive gave him another warning frown.